[met a white girl who rapped in Chinese
at a tea house who reminded me
Spark Master Tape was good like
cup of warm kava on
dark nights of the soul]
Forty-five years and counting,
but still stuck right here,
feeling as unheard as ever, wishing for that
slurred escape, pharma-fog to blur/make disappear
absurd life, living false, sittin' on nothing flat,
how did I get there? Can't remember precise path,
forgotten forks? Fuck it though, spoonfeed me codeine
and let me overdose on clouds, sweet grapes of wrath
flavored syzzurp to create blizzard of this obscene
abomination against the Power of Lounge
called civilization, mislabelled as progress;
rather be wobbling through woods, letting fingers scrounge
white trash quartz, stack dirtgod altars against noblesse,
making syrup splash in poisoned consciousness stream,
Biggie's voice echoing with "it was all a dream..."
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